Warcraft 1. Chapter 1

I own a bar. It's got better wine selection than most, but the place is trashed. There's only three stools, and bar could easily fit ten comfortably, twenty with effort, and thirty if it really got busy. Not to mention the tables-except all the tables were falling apart, and most of them were piles of rotting wood on the floor. I gaze over all of this with one hand around a wine glass and the other on a rag, wiping dust out and off of the glass. In total I've had thirty-two people enter the bar, twenty five run back out of the bar, five people stay, buy their booze, and get the hell out, and two people actually sit down at the bar and drink their mead and ale. Only one of them did so without giving me the evil eye the entire time. And he had, well, a few screws loose.

The middle of Deadwind Pass, only slightly veered off the road, is my bar; A Demon's Drink. And I am one hundred percent, no argument to be made, demon. Though, different from those present in the ranks of the Burning Legion. Unlike them I have some semblance of both free-will and sanity beyond gutting someone. My appearance is also similar and yet far different from any of the classical demons; in the way of the Nathrezim I have hooves and horns, but no wings. My skin is perfectly dark, the only deviation from black being my clothes and my eyes; they change with my emotions, to some extent. Green means happy, blue means fierce, purple means lusting, and yellow means sad. Simple, really, since the colors swirl around and mix together to perfectly display how I feel. For instance, at the moment, my eyes are totally yellow. No pupils, no iris, no sclera, just like a Night Elf or a High Elf, my eyes are totally glowing a singular color.

I am alone. No one ever comes here, no matter how many times I clean my glasses or wipe down the bar or try to rebuild a stool to make another place available. The bar is contained within a tiny house, and a door with the name of the place supplies way of entry. It's been two years since I've seen it open. Not all that long for an undying being such as myself; I can die in battle, but not through old age. Pity, since I'm depressed enough to desire my head on a pike this very moment. And yet, when all seems hopeless, I heard a thump of someone pressing their hand against the door. I immediately straighten, slouch, and then straighten again. Why? At first I am pleased with the arrival of _someone_ to my bar. Just, someone, anyone, would be welcome. Then I speculate upon the fact that as soon as they see me they'll just leave and I'll spend another long while muttering to myself and wiping down dusty wood and glass until the same thing happens again. But I resign myself to stand up straight and welcome them as best I can, because I never know if they'll actually stay or not, and I might as well try.

I was unaware of the storm outside. The weather beats on the roof, surely, but I don't even notice the noise anymore, so out of tune I've become with the outside world. Why would I leave, anyway- to restock my wine? It's not being used anyways, no point. But I am fully aware of the storm now, the way the door flies wide open outwards and rain shoots in sideways, the stumbling of several people-_several_ people! My chances were looking up! Unless they decided to attack me, or something, however. None of them really seemed to be in touch with their surroundings, instead appearing to just want an escape from the rain and wind. So, I took a moment to examine them. All of them wore the same cloak, a large green cowed robe that made them all look very similar despite the varying sizes between them. Several of them were incredibly large and nearly touched the ceiling. One of them, the one closest to doing so, had horns poking out the front of his hood.

Each person seemed to be uncomfortable with each other's presence. They totally ignored me, instead staring at the tables that rotted and crumbled against each other. With a wave of one of their hands two of the tables were suddenly fixed, and were then mashed together and fused in the center. A mage, obviously, bending reality and doing what he wanted. I could do the same if I tried, but to be honest, it took more effort than I'd be willing to bother with for tables for people who would never show up. They sat down, people taking specific seats next to specific people. I could make out mutterings in Orcish, Darnassian, Thalassian, hell, I even heard plain old _growling,_ the primal language of the Worgen. While they were, of course, able to speak the same Common as the humans, they had their own language as well, and used it amongst themselves. The table quite literally took up the entire room, and there was barely enough space for everyone to sit down. Without any delay someone began to speak, and in Common, a language nigh everyone understood no matter what race. The voice was thick, heavy, and felt distinctively _green._

"We have come together today on neutral soil for peace talks. Each member has brought a single champion, armed for combat, but no weapons amongst themselves." The words came from someone with tusks and green lips. That's all I could make out of him of my particular angle of his hood, but it was pretty obvious he was an Orc. Now what was this about peace talks?

"I am still at odds putting aside all the destruction your kind has caused. But, for the sake of my people, I will _try_ to make due." Rough. Wild, and yet, well-mannered. Spoken like a King. Human, too, I guessed, from the ease of the Common that flowed out of his lips. With an unspoken ushering, all hoods came down. I tried not to squeak. Before me sat the leaders of the Horde and the Alliance, along with a famous champion for each of them. I was curious why Garrosh Hellscream was not in the place of the Warchief, but behind him. I speculated Thrall had returned to his rightful place after the hoo-hah with Neltharion and what not. Both Thrall and Varian Wrynn, the Alliance's version of a "Warchief," King of Stormwind and leader of the humans, were grinding their teeth at one another. It was this man, with great scar across his face, that had spoken second. But now, no one spoke.

A terse silence floated around the room. No one made any try at speaking, not even clicking their tongues or muttering under their breath. Just glaring at each other and making the least friendly faces they could. Pushing the urge to hide under my counter and wait it out away, I cleared my throat, and drew the attention perhaps the strongest warriors alive on Azeroth today. If I was going to have people in my bar, they might as well know I was here, right?

"A peace talk cannot take place without _talking._ Perhaps some drinks would loosen your tongues?"


	2. Chapter 2

It didn't happen slowly-everyone's head just _snapped_ to face me, eyes going wider than possible and more than a few lips parting to whisper 'demon' or just gape. Every champion was drawing their weapons, and several people were pointing hands wrapped in flames or fire or arcane energies at me. Perhaps not the best idea. I was wishing I'd chosen to hide under the counter right now, but I had no way to escape without getting my head blown off or serving drinks. To be honest, I had nothing to lose. This was the first time this many people had come into my bar, the first time this many people had _sat down_ in my bar. I probably wouldn't see anything like this again in my entire undying life. So, if I died now, I had no regrets. I did, however, have a lump in my throat. Nervousness is a sin amongst existence, and I curse it to the briny deep thricefold.

"Is that a yes?" I try, my yellow eyes shifting out of their slump and becoming translucent. No mood. I felt nothing with spears aimed at me and swords ready to slash me in half, even though they were across the room and I was behind my counter.

"A demonic bartender?" High Tinker Gelbin Mekkatorque squeaked, looking rather amused. He held a wrench in one hand and was gently tapping it against the table. He didn't think it was a weapon, I supposed, and no one else did, from the way no one made any move to call him out. He continued. "Now we know why the place is called A Demon's Drink." I heard the Worgen, King Genn Greymane rumble agreement, looking bored, holding his head up off the table with a clawed hand and snarling to himself softly. He sat between Magni and Varian, and neither looked too uncomfortable doing so. Personally? I wanted nothing more for the wolf-man to stay _right_ where he was. No need to come over here, uh-uh.

"A demon." Magni Bronzebeard, the King under the Mountain, ruler of the Ironforge repeated. I nearly double took, but didn't, for fear that I'd lose my head if I made any sudden movements. Wasn't he frozen solid in Ironforge? Something about Ulduar, or something or other. But here he was, awake and looking rather sober. Which was odd to see in a dwarf, by the way. He glanced amongst his peers, notably glaring at Sylvanas in particular. "And he offers drinks?" His glare turned into a grin, regardless how coldly the Dark Ranger glowered back at him. A heavy hand slapped down on the table. "A round for all of us, your finest mead!"

Thank god for Dwarven love of alcohol.

I gave a curt nod, turning around and plucking several bottles of, as he requested, my finest mead and set them down on the counter. I was fully aware of the silence and awkwardness of being served drink by a demonic bartender, but I ignored it. For the third time in my life I was serving people drinks-and it wasn't singular! There was more than one person, and they weren't sitting at a stool, staring at me with a suspicious look in their eyes, no were they 'missing a few screws.' I bent and pulled out enough mugs for everyone from under the counter, my tail flicking back in forth in the above me as I did so. With numerous loud clunks I had made a long line of them and proceeded to pierce a cork with my claw and with a loud 'POP!' began pouring. For almost two minutes there was no sound but the fizzing and bubbling and whishy-washing of drink being poured. And I relished every second of it. Of course, there were some particular things I could do without.

"I'm sorry, _what?"_ Tyrande Whisperwind outright bellowed, pulling everyone's attention away from me as I filled the fifth mug. "Does no one see what's wrong with this situation?" She pointed a long and slender finger towards me. "A _demon_ of the Infernal Legion is serving drinks! It's probably all poison and Felhunter piss!" I was a bit shocked at how coarse the language of someone so strikingly beautiful and typically dignified could be, but one particular part of her 'argument' made my tail flick dangerously.

"Not with the Legion…" I muttered under my breath, pouring the seventh mug. I heard silence once more, but it had a different feel to it. I glanced up and found everyone giving me a 'huh?' kind of look. They'd heard my murmur. I cleared my throat and spoke a bit louder. "While the Legion does employ demons, not all demons follow the Legion. My people do not." I poured the ninth. "Sargeras couldn't conquer my world thanks to my people's undying nature. It was either kill us or leave us alone, no inbetween, for our kind was not one to surrender nor fall prey to tricks of the mind. He made a tactical decision, and left us be." I finished pouring. "After he left our kind split apart, the battle having strewn many of our leaders into disarray. I am the only one to come to Azeroth, I think." A smirk crept onto my face as I piled the drinks onto two trays. "Where one world splits apart, another can be put together. Just like this one."

I ignored the spears, swords, daggers, spells, and other objects and things nearly poking me in the side, leeway given by an inch, and set a pair of drinks before each leader, one for them and one for the person behind them, their champion. I moved back behind the bar once my task was completed, both trays clutched to my chest, and set my gaze upon them again. No one was drinking. Tyrande's words must have hit a sore spot or something.

"It's not poison. Nor is it…" I sent a wary glance at the leader of the Night Elves. "As you so quaintly put, 'Felhunter piss.' It's mead, just as the King under the Mountain requested. Besides, I wouldn't want to kill any of you anyways. It's the first time I've had a customer, let alone a whole group, in several years." My eyes were totally green at this point, but a brief yellow flashed through. "Heh." I propped myself up on the bar, my hands covered in my eyes. "After this I'll probably never see another person again, curse my lucky stars." Still, silence. My head snapped up and I bared my teeth, barely holding back the snarl in my voice. "You've got your damn drinks. Get drunk, talk, make your bloody _peace_ or whatever it is you seek! Don't just sit there and let what petty effort you've made to come together today be wasted over the bartender being of demonic heritage!" I spat the last bit, bottom lip quivering. Eyes blue and yellow and violet, swirling together, making a perfect representation of _rage._ I spun around grabbed a glass and a rag, and began muttering to myself under my breath as I cleaned to no point-the glass was already spotless and sparkling.


	3. Chapter 3

My outburst had the desired effect, much to my shock. I hadn't really been thinking clearly at that moment, and sufficed to say, I was disappointed in myself for losing my temper like that. But, they were talking. Magni had started drinking, and I broke out of my stupor to _beam_ back at him when he shouted it was the best damn drink he'd had in a while. Things took an odd rhythm after that. Magni, being the main drinker, would ask for another pint every few minutes, while everyone else took small sips out of…guilt? The power behind my words, how true they were, had an effect. Though perhaps the mentioning of how bloody _alone_ I was had something to do with it. And there weren't any complaints, even from Tyrande, though I could feel her staring a hole into my back when I turned away. And they had begun talking. Back and forth, starting slow. Firstly, a basic framework of rules was set between the two factions. There would be no yelling, there would be no talking over each other. Each person would have their piece spoken, and that included the champions behind the leaders. Garrosh took full advantage of that.

"The lumber in Ashenvale is a necessity for the Horde's houses and fortresses. A simple forest should not matter so much." The words stung almost everyone there besides Garrosh, even Sylvanas felt a twinge at the Orc's insensitivity to nature. Tyrande was the one to retort, however, as it was within her realm of argument.

"If we are aiming for piece, Hellscream, then for what purpose would a fortress be? And houses can be built, surely, through actual trade, not conquest of the home of many creatures _and_ my people." The Orc was about to growl something back, but Baine spoke first.

"Lady Whisperwind speaks valid points," The Night Elf in question gave a slight upward curl of the lips to Baine, "though Hellscream makes one in particular." And the Night Elf in question frowns, but Baine Bloodhoof, leader of the Tauren, plowed onwards. "Lumber is a necessity for _all_ people, no matter the race. Not all of us are as skilled in tree construction as the Night Elves are, and thus we build our own constructions from the ground up. A deal must be made; perhaps Ashenvale is too high a price, and the lumber there is held close to heart. Where else holds bountiful trees able to be used?"

"Hmm…" The loud hum pulls everyone attention to the Prophet Velen, leader of the Draenei and well known wise man. The wrinkles on his forehead crease and he makes a thoughtful side to side jaw movement in his mouth, clearly mulling something over. He nods, more to himself than anyone else, and glances at Baine. "You may have mentioned it on the sidelines, but there is a reference which you made within your argument that could fix many problems." Everyone waited patiently as he took more air into his lungs, a slight wheeze to his breathing. "Mentioning of the Night Elves tree construction. Perhaps if other races were to study this art…" He gestured openly with his hands, letting everyone sort out what he meant.

"I highly doubt my kind will take to the trees, Prophet." Sylvanas said with sarcasm dripping off every syllable. "Besides, there is enough lumber within my own lands to supply my people's needs. Were we not focused on a war there would be no need for the production of catapults and war constructs; my resources would become available to those who required them as long as the requirements did not encroach upon my own."

"You aren't as cold hearted as they say you are, Sylvanas." Magni quipped, gently lowering his pint from his lips and placing it on the table. Typically you'd see a dwarf slam the mug down, but this situation didn't seem to bear the atmosphere to do so. The Banshee Queen narrowed her eyes.

"Who're _they?"_ Magni only shrugged, picking his pint back up and continuing to drink.

"What of embassy?" Thrall tugged the conversation away from Sylvanas. "Each capital to have representatives of each race within them? Will all cities welcome all races? Not to mention land divisions." He spoke surprisingly soft for an Orc; one would think Orcs were loud, brash, but this time…The atmosphere in this room was _weird._ Each person was acting significantly unlike their stereotypes, aside from Garrosh and Magni, the former being aggressive and the latter eventually to drink himself under the table. Something about just…_talking._ Plain talking to each other, and they were seeing sides of each other they'd never imagined; Sylvanas _not_ being cold hearted? Unheard of. In response to Thrall's questions came a multitude of answers. Spoken, not shouted arguments traveled back and forth across the table concerning the division of landmass and territory. Nothing was set in stone, but there was a general consensus that amongst each zone would be multiple Alliance and Horde towns and settlements. The embassy idea was a bit off putting to some of them, but the idea of every city welcoming every race seemed to be something that everyone desired, even Sylvanas and her Undercity.

As the night wore on everyone's tongues became a bit looser. Tempers didn't rise, though, thank the gods, because no one besides Garrosh was seeking battle and tossing insults at everyone, even his own faction leader. I didn't like Garrosh; too stuck up, too set in stone with his ways. Everyone here was willing to change for the betterment of the world, just not him. But Thrall seemed to have him in check easily enough; a quiet 'be silent' and he was shut up. They began addressing old, _old_ issues, such as simply understanding each other's culture and way of life. It almost became story telling.

"The history of the Worgen is convoluted and choppy," Genn began, it being his turn to tell a basic bit about his race. They'd begun doing so without knowing it, telling each other their kind's history and giving a bit of backbone to their wishes, desires, and oppositions to certain ideas. "Originally the Worgen were druids who had given themselves into the beast…"

"Sargeras approached the three of us with the offer…"

"Da Witch Docto' Zalazane took our lands from us…"

"Mannoroth corrupted us…" Everyone had a story to tell, and everyone listened patiently. It was like everything was just coming together before my eyes, so sappy and yet so perfect- why the hell hadn't they just gotten together and talked it out like this before? Would have saved a _hell_ of a lot of trouble and whole lot of lives. But, nothing was set in stone. This was a preliminary meeting for the preliminary meeting; out of a few thousand points to be reached, perhaps only a hundred were discussed, and few bluntly decided upon. But the main point was this; all battles would cease. Every troop would return home to their families, their homes, and wait. Wait for decisions to be made, for peace to prosper. Under the possibility for peace many people would cheer, but some would revolt-those mutinies would have to be dealt with, and more meetings would have to be held. It would be tedious, long lived, and by the end of it they'd be old and gray, or gray-er in Velen's case, and they would hopefully come to an agreement amongst each other.

It was the early hours of the morning when the storm finally let up. They were starting to get tongue tied and _very_ tired, clearly running out of the capability to keep up banter and deliberate. Magni was, quite literally, under the table. His subordinate, Muradin, helped to carry him out. They were leaving. My customers were leaving. I slumped on the bar, eyes turning vivid yellow with purple, a despaired lusting for another visitation of _someone_ in the future, for surely, this would never happen again.

"Demon…" I heard someone start, trying to sort through what they were going to say. I looked up; Varian and Thrall stood side by side, and it was Thrall who had spoken. Varian continued for him.

"This location is neutral and discreet. Might we use it for future talks?" It was like my whole world got flipped upside down. Both men were suddenly faced with a bright green stare as I nodded as fast as I could. Varian grunted and walked away. Thrall remained a moment longer, Garrosh grumbling behind him about how long it would take to get back to Orgrimmar.

"The drink was good." He said, simply. And then he turned sharply and left, red-skin following close behind. I felt elated, like it was all a dream and at any moment I'd wake up to be face-to-face with the terrible reality of my dreary bar once again. But I didn't wake up. With a new conviction in my heart, I set to cleaning my glasses and mugs and wiping down the bar in preparation for the next meeting. It would be in three weeks, and I could barely contain my excitement.


End file.

Warcraft